


Poems will be written about my love

by stillsolovely



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Inspired by Poetry, It's just Baz being a pining mess, M/M, Pining, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Really this fic just sounds like a thesaurus threw up, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Has Feelings, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Bad at Feelings, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, there is no plot whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22131874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillsolovely/pseuds/stillsolovely
Summary: Baz Pitch being a dramatic gay pining mess in three (totally unrelated) parts, inspired by three (unrelated) poems by three (you guessed it!) (totally unrelated) poets.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41





	1. Indescribable

**Author's Note:**

> HELLOOOO  
> IT IS I  
> AND THIS IS A THING? I WROTE A BECAUSE I LOVE POEMS BUT ALSO WAS TRYING TO GET MYSELF UNSTUCK FOR MY WRITER'S BLOCK.
> 
> ENJOY.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One of Baz Pitch being a dramatic gay pining mess, as inspired by Shakespeare's _Sonnet CXXX_ , with my stupid mistake fixed :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ####  SONNET CXXX
> 
> My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
>  Coral is far more red than her lips' red;  
>  If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;  
>  If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.  
>  I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,  
>  But no such roses see I in her cheeks;  
>  And in some perfumes is there more delight  
>  Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.  
>  I love to hear her speak, yet well I know  
>  That music hath a far more pleasing sound;  
>  I grant I never saw a goddess go;  
>  My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:  
>  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare  
>  As any she belied with false compare.
> 
> _-William Shakespeare_

**···**

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s eyes. They aren’t special, or unique; they aren’t indescribable. They’re blue. They’re boring; generic. Blue. Flat. (Bright.) There isn’t a hint of any other shade, any other colour; just blue. It’s not a deep ocean blue, or a pale, grayish blue, or even a blue of swirling hues; Simon Snow’s eyes are simply blue. Unremarkable. (Bewitching.) 

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s lips. They aren’t special, or unique; they aren’t indescribable. They’re pink. Average. Curved down, frowning, suspicious clearly visible on his face. Curved up, smiling, stretching the skin taut, showing off slightly crooked teeth. (Blinding.) Drawn in a thin line in the rare cases that he thinks. They don’t look soft; they aren’t chapped or cracked either, despite his constant gnawing on them. Pink. Perfectly ordinary. (Extraordinary.)

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s skin. It’s not special, or unique; it’s not indescribable. White. Fair. Nearing pale, yet not quite. (Sunkissed.) Flushed, because the moron is easy enough to embarrass or rile up. Nearing pale, yet not quite there yet. His skin is not soft, it can’t be, not with all the blisters and calluses and scars, from whacking at shit with his ridiculous sword. Not rough enough to be rough, not soft enough to be soft. Not pale enough to be pale, not kissed or flushed enough to be considered anything else. Normal. Simon Snow’s skin is normal; boring to lay eyes on. (Exquisite.)

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s moles. They aren’t special, or unique; they aren’t indescribable. They’re so much; too much: too many, too chaotic, too irregular. Imperfect. They don’t form any sort of descenable pattern; they don’t look like constellations. Simon Snow’s moles and freckles aren’t stars. They don’t sparkle. They aren’t bright. They aren’t diamonds. They’re like sprinkled dirt. Chaotic. Irregular. Dull. (Mesmerizing.)

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s hair. It’s not special, or unique; it’s not indescribable. It’s light brown; dirty blond. (Gold.) His haircut is cliched, overdone: a large mop of hair on top, cropped in the sides and the back. Unruly, ridiculous curls make it stick up in random directions; even more chaos. Untamable, or maybe Simon Snow is just stupid enough to not be able to tame them. It doesn’t shine. It doesn’t flow; it flops. It doesn’t remind any sane person of velvet.

(It reminds me of velvet.) 

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s smell. It’s not special, or unique; it’s not indescribable. Simon Snow smells like smoke. Like bacon and homemade cinnamon buns. Like school issued soap. Sterile. Clean. Bleak. The most confusing mixture of smells ever concocted. Too much; not enough. (Divine.)

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s voice. It’s not special, or unique; it’s not indescribable. It’s annoying. He can’t talk; can’t form sentences. His Lancashire accent is prominent even after years of elocution lessons. He can’t enunciate properly. He blusters his way through everything. Stutters. He communicates like an unintelligent caveman: grunts and growls make up half of his speech; the other half is reserved exclusively for shrugs. Annoying. Aggravating. (Endearing.)

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about Simon Snow’s walk. It’s not special, or unique; it’s not indescribable. He moves like every other uncoordinated, heavy-handed, bumbling idiot. He trods. Trudges. Tramps; tramples; treads. Simon Snow is graceless. He bumps into absolutely everything; knocks everything over. He’s loud. Obnoxious. (Lovely.) 

But there is something absolutely remarkable about my love for Simon Snow. It’s special, unique; it’s indescribable. Useless. Hopeless. Painful. Degrading.

Infinite. Unending. Bottomless.

(Transcendent.)

 **···**

_There is something absolutely remarkable about Simon Snow’s love. It’s special, unique; it’s indescribable._

**···**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If for some reason anyone would care, I also have some (hopefully) good content written.


	2. A kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of Baz Pitch being a dramatic gay pining mess, as inspired by an excerpt of Wilde's _The Ballad of Reading Goal_ (excerpt because the whole poem is _bloody long, okay?_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ####  The Ballad of Reading Gaol
> 
> ...The man had killed the thing he loved  
>  And so he had to die.
> 
> Yet each man kills the thing he loves  
>  By each let this be heard,  
>  Some do it with a bitter look,  
>  Some with a flattering word,  
>  The coward does it with a kiss,  
>  The brave man with a sword!
> 
> ...For each man kills the thing he loves,  
>  Yet each man does not die.
> 
> _-Oscar Wilde_

**···**

_I’m going to die kissing Simon Snow._

I’ll kill him, and steal his dying breath. 

I’ll kiss him, and steal his dying breath. 

And then I’ll die. 

Because I’ll have killed Simon Snow, and with that I’ll have killed myself.

**···**

The only way to not die by your enemy’s hand is by having him die by yours. Live by killing. Defend by attacking. 

So I’ll kill him every day, over and over again, before he gets the chance to kill me. 

(He always goes for the kill.) 

Because Simon Snow is a lot of things, but he is no coward. He’d kill me fatally: drive his sword through my middle; stake my heart; burn me. 

(He already burns me.) 

(He’s right; I’m flammable.)

(He kills me.)

So I’ll kill him every day, over and over again, because while I might welcome Death, I don’t have a death wish. 

I’ll kill him with sneers and smirks, with bitter looks that hide the longing; with harsh words and cruel laughs; with taunts and jabs, lie upon lie, lest he figure out that my hate is love. 

I’ll kill him with punches that push him down stairs; I’ll kill him with voice recorders and chimeras, with dark magic and cruelty. 

I’ll kill him every day, over and over again, because Simon Snow won’t die. 

(I won’t go for the kill.) 

(He’ll always go for the kill.) 

He’d kill me with yells and blustered, half-coherent sentences; with stubborn, consistent, unyielding accusations of plots and ploys; with fists and jutted out jaws and infinite bravery. 

(He’d kill me with slow smiles and sweet words; with soft looks and even softer kisses; with lingering breaths and wandering touches. He’d kill me with sincerity and kindness and love.)

(I wish I had a death wish.)

(I don’t have a death wish.)

And so I’ll kill him. 

And like the coward I am, I’ll wait for him to kill me to kill him. 

(I’ll kill him.)

I’ll kiss him. 

I’ll give him my dying breath; I’ll steal his dying breath. 

_Because Simon Snow is going to die kissing me._

(Just not today.)

**···**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let it be noted that: 
> 
> 1\. I love this poem.  
> 2\. I love this poet.  
> 3\. Said poet was a dramatic gay himself who got himself arrested because he flaunted his homosexuality (?). He wrote this poem while serving his sentence.  
> 4\. _Reading Goal_ is pronounced as "Redding Jail", because British.  
> 5\. Totally unimportant: Oscar Wilde probably smelled really nice, if you discount the not-showering-too-often thing .  
> 6\. You are most likely really confused now, if you bothered reading this.  
> 7\. I love you if you actually read this.  
> 8\. I don't like odd numbered lists so here is an extra, useless sentence.


	3. Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three of Baz Pitch being a dramatic gay pining mess, inspired by Carol Ann Duffy's _You_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ####  You
> 
> Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,  
>  so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,  
>  like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables  
>  like a charm, like a spell.
> 
> Falling in love  
>  is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart  
>  like a tiger ready to kill; a flame's fierce licks under the skin.  
>  Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in.
> 
> I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,  
>  in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,  
>  staring back from anyone's face, from the shape of a cloud,  
>  from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me
> 
> as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are  
>  on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream.
> 
> _\- Carol Ann Duffy_

**···**

I was doomed the second I saw you. 

I was doomed, because I was made to be tortured. 

Because you were made to torture me. 

Because you were the best way to torture me: not fire, not flames, but the burning pain that is loving you. 

Not tight spaces and dark and coffins. 

Not the unshakable cold, hunger, or pain, but the endless void that is my heart every time I look at you. 

Every time I look at someone with bronze curls. With blue eyes. With moles like constellations. 

Every time I look at you. 

Every time I see you. 

(I see you.) 

I see you everywhere. 

I saw you everywhere.

I saw in the dark, when I was desperate and scared; when I longed for freedom. 

(When I longed for you.) 

I saw you in my dreams, because having you is all that I dream about.

I saw you when I wasn’t able to tell whether it was day or night; not because of the endless, seeping black, but because I couldn’t differentiate between actual dreams and daydreamed fantasies. 

When time bled together. 

When I couldn’t shake the cold, the hunger, the pain. 

When they clung to me, like a second skin, like a hand trying to smother me. (They stayed, along with the feeling of inevitable doom; they stayed even after I was out of that fucking coffin, because I was a dead man hopelessly in love.) 

(Hopelessly in love with Simon Snow.)

(Hopelessly in love with you.)

(Hopelessly in love with you, the only good left in the world. You, with your blue eyes and blond hair and stupidly endearing laugh, are the second most idiotic person to walk this planet; preceded only by me, because I’ve got to be even more idiotic to fall in love with an open fire.) 

(I’ll burn.) 

I saw you in the light, when I was still desperate and scared; when I was free, but still longing for you. 

(For your touches, your kisses, your loving gazes.)

(Maybe I was made to torture myself.) 

I saw you in the Sun, it its desperate attempt to compete with you brightness. 

I saw you in the sky, in its colour and in the shape of its clouds; in its stars and soft sounds, so much like how your breath would feel grazing my lips. 

(Mouth breather.) 

I saw you everywhere.

I see you everywhere. 

I see you in our classrooms, in the dining hall; on the Great Lawn, the edge of the pitch, under the yew trees; I see you at the top of a tower, in our room, on your bed. 

So close. 

(So alive.) 

So never mine.

Forever the untouchable dream.

**···**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carol Ann Duffy has so many amazing poems, and I seriously mean this, even if poems typically aren't your thing (though then I suppose you're probably not reading this in the first place...), go read _Mrs Darwin_.
> 
> Actually, here, I'll just format it for you, because it's golden:
> 
> ####  Mrs Darwin
> 
> _7 April 1852_  
>  Went to the Zoo.  
>  I said to Him—  
>  Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me of you.
> 
> _\- Carol Ann Duffy_
> 
> (Also, Carol Ann Duffy literally wrote the perfect Snowbaz poem without even knowing it; genius.) (Sorry if I didn't do it justice.)

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
